Wishbone
by pandorasocks
Summary: Once upon a time, there was a girl who shouldn't have mattered but did. Once upon a time, there was a girl who played God and won and an archangel who knew she could all along. Gabriel/OC, Winchester/OC friendship—each in future chapters. Previously titled "It Will Burn".
1. Introduction

Marla's philosophy of life, she told me, is that she could die at any moment. The tragedy of her life is that she doesn't.

—Chuck Palahniuk

* * *

_Introduction_

Once upon a time, there was a girl who had scraped knees and too much pain.

Her name was Phoebe Wellesley, but everyone called her Bee. She lived in a trailer with a mommy who smoked too much and a daddy who was nonexistent. The only men that she ever knew were the string of misfits that found their way into her mother's bed. When she got older, they tried to lose themselves in her bed, too.

But, when she was younger they'd sing her songs with rusty vocal cords, or tell her ghost stories that sent gooseflesh crawling up the back of her neck, or show her how to use a lighter, and her mommy would laugh and everything would be all right, for a little while. Lazy days turned into hazy nights, the blue of the sky disappearing into a flash of red.

One day, in her mother's bed, there was a man who had no name. He had little face, too, for it was covered with shadows. The man with no name wore black—from head to toe—and sometimes, when Phoebe looked at him for a long time, his eyes weren't the colour eyes were supposed to be.

"I can make sure," he told her mother one night, with Phoebe sitting at the kitchen table picking at a scab on her arm and glaring at a bowl of congealing mac n' cheese. "I can make her normal, Maggie, and you won't have to worry anymore."

Phoebe didn't know what it meant, at the time, when her mommy kissed the man with no name. It wasn't passionate, like the kisses her mommy gave to her wandering men, and it wasn't soft, like the kisses her mommy planted on her forehead; it was desperate and shaky, with her mommy's hands planted firmly at her sides, balled into fists. Phoebe watched for a minute, and then turned back to the macaroni in front of her.

The man with no name rolled out of her mommy's bed, just as quickly as he'd rolled in. Five years passed with ease—more of mommy's wanderers came and went, slipping into her bed in the night-time and out in the morning. Sometimes, they'd plant a kiss on Phoebe's cheek, with bristly faces and kind eyes; or they'd leave money on the counter, with a note that would read like, _See you around Maggie. Take care of the kid_. Other times, though, they'd look at her mommy with pity in their eyes, or anger, and say, "Just wait, Maggie. Just wait and see what the world's gonna do to you."

Her mommy would always shake when they said that. Her eyes, which were always so gentle, would turn furious. "Get out," she'd hiss, grabbing onto Phoebe's arms and holding her tight to her legs. "Get outta my home, or, so help me God, I'll call the cops."

Mommy would cry after that, every time. She'd sit at the kitchen table and sob, with her hands covering her face and her shoulders shaking. Perhaps it was instinct or perhaps—Phoebe had never known what to do with emotional people—but whenever this happened, Phoebe Wellesley would linger in the window of the trailer until the man who'd left disappeared, and then, she'd go, too. When she was ten, she'd hop on her bike ("You're wasting money, Sal. Poor little girls would rather food or clothes than some old rust machine." Mommy had said to the wanderer. "Didn't cost me anything," the man called Sal replied. "Used to be my son's."), and peddle her legs as fast as she could and as hard as she could, until she couldn't hear her mommy, and the trailer was just a speck in the distance.

Sometimes, she'd stop at the general store where, if the right cashier was on, she'd get five dollars worth of food for fifty cents. It was usually Trisha, the young redhead, or Kate, the grey-haired woman, who were there when Phoebe was. Kate was the one who gave the discount. "You take care of that mama of yours," she'd say, patting Phoebe on the cheek and handing her a bag filled with delicious trans fats and sugars.

"Yes," Phoebe would reply with a sinking in her stomach. "Yes, I will."

She'd peddle back home as fast as she could, guilt eating her up from the inside. Then, she'd sit at the curb outside of the trailer park, open a candy bar and listen. The wind moved past her, ruffling the trees and bushes that surrounded the almost-barren park; a police siren, or an ambulance siren, would howl occasionally; and, if she closed her eyes and focused really hard, she could almost hear her mommy's wailing.

_Stupid_, she'd think. She'd grab at the pebbly ground underneath her, scraping her fingers over the rocks, again, again, again, until she drew blood. Then, Phoebe would just sit there, staring at nothing for a while until the wailing subsided and the sun set and she'd head back home.

The only time anything different had ever happened, Phoebe had been thirteen. It involved a janitor who called himself Charlie and the sharing of stories and chocolate, then the promise of never seeing each other again. But, sometimes, Phoebe thought she saw him, and she'd chase after whatever shadow she'd seen with hope in her stomach, only to be disappointed.

Years passed by with flashes of sunsets, fights and more wanderers; they left even more quickly in those years than they had before. The first one to make a move towards Phoebe was named Eli. He smelled like coffee and had brown eyes, and, to be honest, wasn't the worst man in the world in Phoebe's mind. Until her mother went to sleep that night.

"Come on, bumblebee," he said, grabbing her hand.

"No," she had replied. "No."

"Why not?" He said.

"I don't want to."

It was that simple, and Eli never said anything again. He was gone the next morning, before the dawn. That time, when her mother cried, Phoebe watched with a sick sort of satisfaction.

She knew the names of all of them, starting with Eli. Sometimes, when she was feeling particularly vengeful, she'd list their names. At first, she'd do it in her head. Then, they'd make their way into her mouth. When Phoebe said them, it sounded like a chant. Eli, Marcus, Matthew, Jake, Xavier, Pete, Walter_…_ repeat. _I hope they all go to hell_, she'd think.

Phoebe was seventeen when her mother died—an animal attack, the police said. There was severe blood loss, said the young officer who told her.

_Margaret Wellesley was found in a puddle of water, holding a cross, with a blood alcohol content of 0.45_, the anchorwoman on the local news station. Phoebe remembered that, of all things that happened that day.

After that, everything happened very quickly. A man named Harry Wellesley called—a teary woman named Maria Wellesley in the background—saying that they were Margaret Wellesley's parents, saying that they didn't know they had a granddaughter, but they wanted to take care of her, wanted her to live with them.

Her entire life, the only people that Phoebe had ever been associated with was her mother, the wanderers and the janitor whose name definitely wasn't Charlie. But, child services was adamant about Phoebe staying with her grandparents, in Springfield, Ohio, and so she did.

They were nice people, to be sure. Old—both Maria and Harry and their fat cat, Marigold—but _nice_. And they weren't poor, like their daughter (her mother); they lived in a relatively big house in a middle-class neighbourhood. They never went a night without supper, and didn't have to worry too much about how much money they spent on food or clothes. It was all so unfamiliar, and anytime she vocalized this, Harry would smile a little sadly and say that it never had to be like that for her again, and Phoebe was glad. She had friends, now; a blonde girl named Jen and a redhead named Heather, the type of girls who had never spoken to a wanderer or had to warn off perverted attempts of seduction by their mother's boyfriends. They never had to work, or avert their eyes at the sight of a neighbourhood child being beaten by a drugged mother. Still, though. They were honest and sweet, and they weren't without intrigue. Both girls—Jen and Heather—attended Crawford Hall, a local college. They'd known each other forever. Heather was superstitious, and Jen was constantly being hit on by the biggest douche-bag on campus.

Phoebe was smart—smart enough for Crawford Hall—but the health of her grandmother began to decline, and every day, the idea of leaving her in the care of someone three years older than her to go to classes seemed less and less reasonable.

"Come on," Harry had said. "We're not that old. We're still hip."

"No, you're not, but you do have two bad hips between you," Phoebe had replied with a grin.

"That's my girl!" Harry had smiled hugely, and Phoebe remembered Maria giggling from the sofa, Dr. Phil in the background talking about something useless.

Instead of the irrational idea of college, Jen and Heather had suggested what might've been the best idea Phoebe had heard in her life; online classes. They were just as expensive and challenging as lectures, but Phoebe could get her degree while making sure her grandparents were all right. Not that she'd ever admit it, to any living soul, but she did care about them. Harry, especially. She had known that the sarcasm she possessed had to be hereditary, and Harry and Maria's daughter hadn't exactly been the wittiest of people.

Phoebe Wellesley was as unremarkable as a person could be. There was nothing special about her, whatsoever. Her hair was brown and her eyes were, too. She was sarcastic and aggressive and managed to always say the wrong thing. She held stock in fairytales (anecdote: she would kill anyone who knew about this) and laughed too loudly. She was short, with a generous chest, and was not the skinniest person. In fact, no matter how hard she exercised and dieted (and she did) there seemed to always be a little extra fat on her stomach, thighs, waist… it wasn't that she was fat, but she did have fat. More than most of her friends. Most of the time, she was all right with that fact; other times, she would sit at home and contemplate how other girls ate so much and weighed so little.

But.

In her life, Phoebe Wellesley had a total of five miracles: a deal, a chance meeting, a beautiful death, a friend and a resurrection.

And, so, once upon a time, there was a girl who shouldn't have mattered but did. Once upon a time, there was a girl who played God and won.

* * *

Author's Note: Well, hello! You're probably wondering where the hell Gabriel was, why there wasn't a lot of him (if you _did_ recognize who he was...), or what the hell just happened. All three are valid questions—you guys all get A's!—but to those of you who prefer to answer questions...

(1) What do you think the demon deal was about? Why was Margaret Wellesley so desperate and worried?

(2) Did Phoebe's past sound believably bad, without sounding annoyingly Sue-like? Did her hatred for the wanderer's who'd wanted to sleep with her seem ridiculous, or justified?

(3) How do you think Phoebe will reunite with "Charlie"? Do you think she will be surprised/shocked/scared/etc.?

(4) Do you like Phoebe? Was there too much information in one chapter?

(5) Will you review? (Trick question!)

Thank you for checking this out/reading it! It's much appreciated, as it took quite some effort and desertion and editing to bring this to life—so, please, review!


	2. Chapter One

Just remember that sometimes, the way you think about a person isn't the way they actually are.

—John Green

* * *

_Chapter One_

She realised, too late, that all life is fleeting.

Even for a magic man.

_-.-_

Coffee and pastries; that was how the café always smelled, and, by default, Phoebe, too. It was on the corner of Main, tucked in between an art supply store and a vinyl record shop that had closed ages ago but never been bought out. The clientele was composed of the homeless—who, Phoebe sometimes slipped burnt danishes or tea that was lukewarm—and the type that took photos of their coffee, wearing H&M clothes and listening to bands like Dashboard Confessional.

It was a Friday night, dark and rainy, and she was the one closing shop that night. In the corner of the shop, a blonde couple lingered, holding hands and sipping at tea in between words; on the other side, a green eyed man plucked at the strings of an out of tune guitar, making Phoebe wince each time he did. There was no greater sin, in her opinion, than playing an out of tune guitar.

The bells on the door jingled, signaling Phoebe to stand up from the stool she had perched on, waiting for the remaining patrons to finish. She turned her head. It was a guy, short and cute in a kind of dorky way. Phoebe was certain he'd never come to the shop before, but he looked familiar nonetheless.

He sat at one of the tables close to the window, alone, and Phoebe took her place behind the counter.

Minutes passed, then an hour; the blonde couple left, and so did the guitarist, all three leaving without a goodbye.

A beat.

"Are you always open this late?"

"No." Phoebe was a professional when it came to one-syllable answers.

"Ah," he said. "Am I just that special?"

"No."

Phoebe looked at him, still. She could've sworn that she knew him, from some other time, some other place. He was looking at her, the same way; with a vague sense of recognition and a marginal amount of pity. There was something very easy to feel bad for in his face, she realised. Maybe that was why she recognised him; because she saw the same thing in her own face.

"Is that the only word you know?"

"No."

Another second, and then the stranger laughed. Not loudly, or excessively, just a short, small burst of laughter. Phoebe didn't smile—or so she liked to say—and tapped her nails against the glass of the countertop.

"You have to order something," she said. "Otherwise, I get to close up shop."

The stranger smiled. "Coffee," he said.

"Just coffee?"

"Yes."

She made the coffee, slipped it onto his table and sat in the seat across from him. Phoebe didn't know why she did it; maybe it was just the fact that she'd been on her feet all day, or maybe it was because she wanted to look at the stranger.

"I've never seen you here before."

"That's weird," he remarked, regarding her with a cocked eyebrow.

Phoebe shrugged, looking down at the table. She knew that she knew him, from some long ago day. Maybe it had been back when she lived with her mother, and maybe he was one of her wanders; maybe it had been with she had just moved to Springhill. Maybe he was one of Heather's ex. boyfriends—she had enough of them—or one of Curtis' friends. But, none of those things seemed right. He looked too young for her mother, but too mature for Heather.

For the rest of the time, they were silent. The stranger scarcely touched the coffee (which he had left black), and left after fifteen minutes, with a "Goodbye, Bee."

She realised, later on that night as she crawled into bed, that she hadn't told him her name, and he hadn't told her hers.

Phoebe saw the man five times after that in the coffee shop; he came at the same time, every time, ordered the same thing, and never gave her his name. She hadn't even told Heather or Jen about him; she hadn't even told Harry. She'd told Maria, who lay unconscious in the hospital, the constant beeping of her heart monitor the only thing that kept Phoebe from crying.

A night without seeing the man—he'd still never given her his name—was a night that she was disappointed with.

It was the way that he looked, Phoebe decided; so normal and unremarkable, so familiar and unchanging. He looked very like a hundred other men. His eyes were different, though. The stood out on his face, the most remarkable thing she'd noticed,—oh, how clichéd it sounded—the lightest colour of brown she'd ever seen, verging on gold. They were what interested her; she had never seen eyes that colour, never seen eyes that full of life. Phoebe almost felt sad to know that someday, those eyes would see their last sight, and close. Phoebe wasn't a romantic—she was quite cynical, usually—but she couldn't stop herself from being awed by the eyes. She would never admit to anyone that she kept the shop open late just to see the eyes, just to exchange the most boring of words with their keeper.

It was pathetic, she knew. This wasn't an idle teenage romance—neither of them were very young—and this wasn't a Harlequin novel. Sometimes, a man was just a man and eyes were just eyes, no matter how notable they were.

He came back two weeks after his last visit, looking… less. Not less childish, not less average. Just _less_.

Phoebe's only friend in the workplace, a possible drug-addict named Nina, had left early that night, leaving Phoebe alone—yet again—to close the shop. She sat at the counter—same as she had the first night the stranger came—with her legs crossed, emptying sugar packets and then rubbing the grains into the table. The bell on the door jingled, and—déjà vu settled in—she turned her head.

"Hey, look who it is," she said. "The guy who never drinks his goddamned coffee."

"Very funny," he commented, sliding onto the stool next to her.

She smiled, sarcastically, leaping from the stool. "The usual, I'm guessing?"

"Actually, no. Surprise me."

Phoebe raised her eyebrows. "I don't mean to brag, but I do make a mean hot chocolate."

"Prove it." He replied.

"Okay," she said. "You'll regret doubting me, mark my words." Phoebe narrowed her eyebrows with these words, and he chuckled, shaking his head.

"You know I never got your name," she blurted as she turned on the kettle.

He had been staring at the table when Phoebe said this, and he looked up at her. "Charlie," he lied.

Phoebe was good at knowing when people were lying; she noticed the way they'd tap their fingers, tighten their eyes, go slack in the jaw, or shake a leg. With "Charlie" it was the way his lip twitched, like he was telling an inside joke that he shared only with himself; his eyes shone a little brighter, too. She wanted to call bullshit—but what business was it of hers if he wanted to lie? In her life, Phoebe had known plenty of people who lied about who they were. She was, after all, the daughter of perhaps the most gung-ho woman who had ever lived and she knew enough wanderers to understand that sometimes, lying about who you were wasn't a choice made selfishly.

"Nice to officially meet you, then, Charlie." Phoebe smiled, and he did, too.

She set the hot chocolate down in front of him with a wry expression on her face.

"Try it," she said.

Charlie looked at it hopefully, sipped tentatively, and then—

Phoebe ducked out of the way as Charlie spit, laughing loudly. She may have exaggerated her abilities… just a tad.

"That is possibly the worst thing I have ever tasted—in my entire existence," he said, wiping his mouth.

"I'm offended," she retorted, standing again, smirking.

Charlie laughed. There was something very easy in his laughter, something very light.

Phoebe wished, fleetingly, that she could've been closer to him, just for his laughter. Just for the way he sounded. It was very likely that at that moment, Phoebe might've been happier than she'd been when she met the other Charlie. She couldn't remember his face anymore—it was like someone had blurred it from her memory, because all she could remember was the navy colour of his janitor uniform—but she remembered what had happened. The words, the way that the man whose name definitely wasn't Charlie had been so kind. The memory was a good one; perhaps one of the only good ones she'd had.

"Now do you want your regular?" She asked. "Coffee is the one thing that I don't completely butcher."

"Nah, I'm good," Charlie said. "I have to get going soon, anyway."

"_Really_? I mean—you just got here."

Charlie smirked, this time, looking extremely self-satisfied. "I have work in the morning, nice and early."

"Oh, yeah? What do you do?"

"I'm a janitor," he replied. "At Crawford Hall."

"Seriously? But you're so—y'know, not old and creepy."

He laughed again. "Nice stereotyping."

"Sorry—it's a gift."

He shook his head with a smile, pulling out a wallet.

"It's on the house," she said, without thinking.

"You don't think your boss will be a little upset?" Charlie asked, smiling still.

"Oh, he'll be furious. That's the best part. Let me walk you out."

Phoebe threw on her jacket, and slipped back to the other side of the counter. There was a very easy, comfortable silence. Charlie flipped the sign onto its CLOSED side, and she locked the door behind them. It was a clear night, the sky navy and silver with stars. Phoebe's car—or, Harry's car—was parked out front, burgundy in colour and rusty in the back.

"You want a drive?" She asked, scuffing her feet.

Looking back on this question—innocent and effortless as it was, harmless and regular—if "Charlie" had been anything less than what he was, she would've been dead. That was how the world worked, Phoebe had found; a simple kindness could cost you your existence.

"No, I think I'm gonna walk tonight," He said, staring towards a man in a suit that had just passed by. The lingering look was so fierce that Phoebe shuddered. "You should go home," he said quietly.

Phoebe wasn't sure if she had been planning on going anywhere else; but the tone of voice he used was so serious that she nodded, quickly. "Guess I'll see you…?"

"Tomorrow," he clarified with a far-off look in his eyes. "Can't go a day without that outstanding hot chocolate."

Phoebe laughed, and he gave her a distracted smile; the type one might give to a child who laughed at an ill-timed prank, an immature knock-knock joke. She climbed into her car, driving forward without looking back to see that he had disappeared.

_-.-_

Gabriel was not in the mood for demonic bull crap that night. Any other night—any other goddamned night, and he'd take down that scumbag faster than it could cry "archangel".

But not that night.

He recognized the girl from his—convenient—heavenly radio, recognized her face and her name. She was high risk, apparently; important to Dad and in danger of demons. Really, Gabriel hadn't noticed anything special about her; she was funny, with a seriously generous chest. He recognized her from that trailer park, after his humorous punishment of a man named Jean-Paul Hanover (who had a thing for younger women; so he turned him into one).

He followed the demon in the suit from close behind it, measuring his every step. Gabriel held his blade tightly in hand, trying to prevent it's silvery shine from glinting in the streetlights.

"You know," the demon said. "I always thought gods were supposed to be more impressive."

"Sorry to disappoint," Gabriel snapped. "Why were you following me?"

The demon snorted, eyes flashing to black. "Not you. The human—she's got a price on her head, you know."

_I know it better than you_, Gabriel wanted to say. He held it back, though, twirling the blade in his hands. "You won't be cashing in." He quipped.

"Where did you get—"

Gabriel brought his hand down onto the forehead of the demon's vessel, a flash of light. The blade was cold in his hands, and the demon's vessel fell to the ground. It was a shame, Gabriel thought bitterly, that the man had to die. So much wasted potential.

He snapped his fingers, appearing in his apartment. His dog—Baker—was dozing on one of the armchairs, and Gabriel paused a minute before sliding onto one of his couches. His head ached; the demon, the woman, the price on her head. It all replayed in his mind. If he had thought, once, _ever_, that Phoebe Wellesley was just as normal as any other woman he'd ever met—Dad dammit, he been wrong.

The worst part of it all, perhaps, was how naïve she was towards the supernatural, towards how the world really was. Okay, yes, there was coldness in her face and an iron vault where her heart ought to be; but, still. Innocence was innocence.

The demon hadn't know what he was—one perk of witness protection, he supposed—but he wasn't sure how he could make sure nothing bad happened to Phoebe Wellesley and limit his power to trickster-capacity. Protect; it was such a foreign thing. All the women he knew—Kali, Aphrodite, all the goddesses he'd ever been with—and he'd never had to protect them. Never had to act like they were fragile things. Phoebe wasn't a goddess, though; she was human, with a neck that snapped easily.

Demons would _not_ have her.

Baker woke up, clambering down from the chair and hopping onto his lap, and Gabriel sighed, snapping his fingers. One of his favourite ladies—Ashley from Casa Erotica 13—appeared, smiling and scantily clad.

He grabbed her waist, pulling her into a kiss.

This was, truly, all he needed to forget about Phoebe Wellesley for the night.

* * *

Author's Note: _Please review if you've read it, feedback is catnip_. Thank you for the reviews, favourites and alerts! I'm so happy that you all liked the introduction, and I hope you liked this chapter at least as much. I will admit it is not my best work—this chapter was really trying to write, the words wouldn't flow right. Basically, I've been working on this one chapter all week, and I had six possible chapters. This one was the best by a long shot.

Also Gabriel's comment on Phoebe being "fragile" will be proven wrong, in time. Just wanted to state that fact before I get any rude comments (not that I expect that of you guys).

Questions/comments/concerns? (I will accept any combination of the three!)


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